


Amends

by Dien



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dien/pseuds/Dien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Previously published on LJ, under the title 'Day of Atonement'. After the events of Blue Code, Harold Finch does some... employee management. Some of the fic has been jossed by developing canon, but I'm pleased that I had so much of the bones correct, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amends

It wasn't his worst day.  
  
It wasn't his worst-- worst was the day he realized, really got, what Stills was doing-- Stills, his buddy, his partner, line-of-duty brother-in-goddamn-arms, the guy who'd pushed Lionel to the ground in his very first firefight and who had taken him out to get smashed the day Janet filed for divorce, who'd let him crash on his couch until he had his own place again-- yeah, that Stills. That Stills.  
  
Realizing your buddy was on the take-- that qualified as a goddamn bad day, that qualified as the worst day. If he'd been ten years younger Fusco thinks he'd have turned him in, maybe, maybe, back when idealism was stronger--  
  
(Okay, no, he knows better, even ten years ago he wouldn't have turned him in. But he likes to think he'd have wrestled longer with himself before throwing his lot in with Stills. Maybe.)  
  
But it hadn't been ten years ago, it had been when it was, when all the cliches about protect-and-serve had long since faded and you didn't trust the brass to have your back, you didn't trust City Hall, you didn't trust jack shit except the brothers who'd done right by you and that was what Stills had been to him and so he'd followed. Brothers-in-arms.  
  
Even when every night helping as the muscle left Fusco feeling a little slimier, a little grayer. Even when he used up all the hot water in the apartment building showering after shifts and still didn't feel clean.  
  
But that was then. And Stills was dead. And it wasn't his worst day, but it was goddamn well bad enough.  
  
Detective Lionel Fusco unlocked his front door with a tiredness that went more than just the physical, more than the ache in his shoulders from digging the grave, more even than the damned long forever ride back into the city with Simmons calmly telling him the ways in which he was going to be useful to HR.  
  
“Good to have you back, Fusco,” the lean-faced sonuvabitch had said when he'd dropped him off, and Fusco had said something meaningless and headed for the door.  
  
Now the lock clicked under his fingers, now the door swung open, hall light spilling into his cramped apartment. Fusco gritted his teeth in a not-grin. For being a cop on the take, he sure wasn't getting to see any of the financial benefits.  
  
He fumbled for the light switch with one hand, wrestled out of his coat with the other. Beer in the fridge, turn on the TV and do his best to shut his head off. That was the plan. Skip the shower, just pass out in the chair. End this day as quick as possible.  
  
“Detective.”  
  
He nearly gave himself whiplash spinning, knowing what he'd see-- it was the geek, the brains, whatever you wanted to call him. Suit's scrawnier alter ego, the boss (that he'd been spying on)--  
  
His duty piece was in his hand and pointed at the man, who was sitting in his chair, regarding him steadily through black-rimmed glasses.  
  
“Goddammit, don't _do that,_ ” he rasped, even as a tiny part of his mind pointed out it was at least a little better than being dragged by his throat into bathroom walls and park bushes.  
  
Fusco started to lower the gun, but hesitated. He felt raw. He felt _raw_ , like his bones and muscles were rubbing against each other. Too much. Today had been too much. He'd jumped through every damn hoop for them, he'd saved Suit's goddamn _life_ , and now he was body and soul back in the blood again because of them, and it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough for them. There was going to be another Favor and for what? So they wouldn't expose him?  
  
Fuck that. Prison was starting to sound good.  
  
 _Suit'd kill me_ , that little part of his brain observed again. _So what?_ he answered it... but felt his arm lowering the gun all the same.  
  
Fusco closed his eyes and rubbed at the back of his thick neck, where the tension had turned things into rocks.  
  
“No point in my asking how the hell you got in, is there,” he heard his voice say dully, from a distance. “So what is it? You want me to shoot someone? Tail someone? A file you need? Speak, massa, Fusco fetch.”  
  
There was silence; Fusco opened his eyes to see the geek just sitting there, the dim light from the window shining off his glasses. The silence hung for three, four beats and then the little guy cleared his throat. Finch, that was the name that Suit called him, Fusco remembered distantly.  
  
“You could use better locks, yes. If you'd like I could set you up with a basic electronic security system.”  
  
Fusco stared, then snorted. “Right. So that you two can watch me while I'm showering, eating, and sleeping as well as every other minute of my day. Pass, although you've probably already got it set up. What are you gonna bug next, my dick?”  
  
He was a little surprised to see something like an actual expression flicker over the geek's face, a twist of the lips-- almost pained-- then gone again. Whatever. Whatever. Fusco put his gun back in its holster and plodded for the fridge. He still wanted that beer.  
  
“So what is it? Sooner you give me my next bit, sooner I'm useful to you, yeah?”  
  
“I'm not here to request a favor, Detective.”  
  
“Request? That's cute. You guys haven't _requested_ I do anything, it's been pretty clearly orders,” Fusco growled as he wrenched the aging fridge open and pulled a bottle out from among the takeout cartons.  
  
“Yes. I know. I'm sorry.”  
  
The words were so foreign that they took a few seconds to penetrate. Fusco threw Finch a wary look over the top of the fridge door, then kicked it shut and reached for the bottle opener hanging from a bent nail. He savored the pop, the first drink, ice cold, the best thing to happen to him all day. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back against the counter.  
  
“My hearing must be going from all the gunshots. You want to run that by me again, cuz I know you didn't say what I thought.”  
  
Little dude sighed, shifted a bit in Lionel's chair, the La-Z-Boy, the nicest bit of furniture he owned. “I wanted to apologize for today, Detective. We... I... exposed you to a poorly calculated level of risk.”  
  
 _Poorly calculated level of risk._ Yeah, that was one way to put it. Fusco pinched at the bridge of his nose.  
  
“Yeah. Whatever. If this is all you're here for, go, would you? I've had a long day.”  
  
There was another silence, the kitchen clock ticking loud. Finch said, slowly, as if he wasn't sure Fusco had heard it the first time and wanted to be clear, “I'm sorry for today, Detective Fusco.”  
  
“I _heard you,_ ” Fusco snapped, smacking the fridge with his hand. The geek twitched just a bit at the noise. “Hey, how much do you know about me? Everything, right, with your crazy spooky shit. Do you know I was raised Catholic?”  
  
“Yes.” Beat. “Parochial school, a C student. Brief stint as an altar boy in your youth, although you haven't set foot in a cathedral since Easter of 2007.”  
  
Fusco took another swig from the bottle, way past caring what they knew, how they knew it. “That's right. I don't know if you're religious, Finch-- it's Finch, yeah?-- but there's this thing with regards to confession and all that:  
  
“It's meaningless to go confess for something you know you're gonna do again.  
  
“So go on, tell me you're sorry, I'm touched. You guys are sorry right up until you need a patsy again, I know how this works. HR and his boys, Stills and the guys he was mixed up with, you and Suit-- you can play black-hat-white-hat all you want, I know who I am, I'm the Joe Blow who should ask how high as he jumps and not question orders, like a good boy. Let's just keep it that simple, yeah?”  
  
He heard rather than saw Finch lean back in the seat, the rustle of an expensive suit against the La-Z-Boy's leather. Finch steepled pale fingers before him, the glasses half-moons in the dark.  
  
“Feeling a bit used, are we?”  
  
Lionel didn't dignify that with a response. He knocked back the bottle again, sagged against the counter.  
  
There was a soft click: he looked up to see a briefcase on the geek's lap. Money? He was used to that, briefcases full of unmarked bills. The beer was suddenly sour in his gut. Yeah, it would be nice to have _some_ goddamn benefit to sticking his neck out for them, but he didn't want money. Tiny apartment, child support, all of that notwithstanding, he didn't want money.  
  
He'd been able to tell himself that he was doing the right thing, helping Suit. For the first time in a long time. The money was going to take even that away from him.  
  
He opened his mouth to tell Finch to keep his goddamn blood money, but Finch was speaking first, voice metronome-level over the sounds of rustling paper.  
  
“Your son Lee is ten, isn't he, Detective--”  
  
Lionel Fusco was on the far side of forty now, and he had the desk jockey's gut now, sure-- he hadn't known he could still move this fast. The gun was out, back in his hand, and he was across the distance and he had the gun jammed against Geek's temple and he was shaking, all over Lionel was shaking.  
  
“You leave. My kid. _Out of it,_ ” he growled. “Suit wants to knock me around, you want to blackmail my ass, _fine_ , maybe I deserve that shit, but you _leave my son out of it_. I'll turn you over to Carter myself, I'll go to prison, I don't give a fuck, you don't touch my son, you understand me?”  
  
Finch's Adam’s apple bobbed, his neck twisted at a weird angle to accommodate the gun at his head. Lionel watched him lick his lips.  
  
“I am not threatening your son, Detective Fusco,” the geek said, and his voice was still that cadenced metronome. “I'm retrieving some paperwork. May I?”  
  
Fusco took a long breath, nodded jerkily, and lowered the gun.  
  
Finch took out some papers and offered them up, his other hand lifting to touch gingerly at his temple. Fusco stared, until it was clear he was supposed to take them, then snatched them from the smaller man's hands.  
  
“What the hell's this stuff?”  
  
“I suggest you turn on a light before attempting to read it.”  
  
Goddamn know-it-alls. Him and Suit both. Lionel stalked to one of the lamps and clicked it on, squinting down at the papers and wrestling his glasses from his shirt collar to put them on.  
  
Some corporate bank account, no names he recognized. Couple of pages of this and that, some names that he did know-- Princeton, Columbia, which had all of nothing to do with Lionel Fusco.  
  
Finch was standing, clicking the briefcase shut again, straightening his tie and his damned three-piece self.  
  
“I can't promise that you'll never be in danger again, Detective. You're right there. What I can promise you is this: you have my word that I will use my considerable resources to the extent of my ability to help you out of the difficulties our... work... may result in. My word, Detective.  
  
“The money is for your son. A trust fund, held in an off-shore account-- quite untraceable, I assure you, by HR or by anyone else. When he's eighteen I will ensure the money is released to him as his father's bequest, regardless of whether or not you are... still with us. It will be more than enough to ensure he can attend any college he wishes.  
  
“As far as that goes, I have some-- sway-- with several of the higher learning institutions of the nation. Should your son require any assistance to-- attend one of them-- I'll make sure that he gets into whatever his first choice might be.”  
  
Fusco opened his mouth but nothing came out. In the lamplight Finch looked like a Wall Street guy, impeccable suit and totally out of place in Lionel Fusco's apartment. His gaze tracked down to the money on the page again, the number of zeros.  
  
“Uh. Well. I... don't even know if he's headed for college,” he said faintly. “Kid doesn't pull grades any better than his old man. And college... that's forever away.”  
  
“It doesn't hurt to plan for the future, Detective,” Finch said crisply. “If you think he'd benefit from tutoring, that can be arranged. If his life's desire ends up being... I don't know... auto repair, then I'll ensure he has the best pick of the nation's trade schools.”  
  
Fusco rubbed at the back of his neck. “...yeah. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered. “I, uh... thanks. I guess.”  
  
“Don't mention it.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“No, really. Don't mention it. And burn those papers, please.”  
  
Fusco snorted. “I could just give them back to you?”  
  
The geek accepted-- took them and folded them, tucked them inside his fancy-ass jacket with a jerky little nod. “Very well. Then I believe that concludes our business, Detective. Take a shower. It will help with the backache, and frankly, you smell like you've been digging a grave.”  
  
Lionel squinted at the dapper nerd, trying to figure out if that had been a joke. Finch gave away nothing, just started for the door with that weird jerky hobble of his. But the man paused at the door, his whole body twisting a bit to look at Fusco over the tops of his glasses.  
  
“One more thing, Detective.”  
  
Yeah, here came the other shoe dropping. “...yeah?”  
  
“Stop spying on me and my young friend.”  
  
Fusco sighed, pinched at the bridge of his nose. Too many masters to make happy, yeah, that part didn't change, trust funds or no trust funds. “And when he asks, what do you want me to tell your friend--”  
  
“You won't. I will. Good night, Detective. Dream of better days.”  
  
The door clicked shut. Fusco picked up his sweating beer bottle again, and crossed to his chair, sank down in it. Toed off his shoes and turned on the TV, found a hockey game after a bit of hunting.  
  
It wasn't his best day. But... cold beer, comfortable chair, Rangers playing the Blackhawks... Lee's college education paid for...  
  
Could be a hell of a lot worse, too.


End file.
